“You need not set a place for me,” she said to Jane, who still lingered, half wonderingly. “I dined early in town; it is only for Mr. Wimple”—and she went back to the drawing-room. She hesitated for a moment by the door; she felt as if the dead people who had known it in bygone years were softly crowding into it now, as if they would witness the scene that was before her, and look on at all she had to bear, just for a little while, before she became one of them. She gathered courage to walk to one of the chairs; she put the peacock screen beside her and waited. A quarter of an hour went by, while she stared at the fire with her hands clasped and her head drooping, or at the darkness outside the windows that looked towards the garden. But she could scarcely bear to turn her head in that direction. All the time she was listening, curiously and with a shrinking dread, for the sound of footsteps. Jane came to her. “The dinner is ready,” she said; “it’s a pity Mr. Wimple don’t come—I wanted to get home to mother a bit early to-night. Her cough was worse this morning.” “You can go as soon as you have finished your duties,” Aunt Anne said; “and remind me to pay you your wages, for I am often oblivious——” The words died away on her lips. She heard the handle of the hall-door turn. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER VIII. The rain showed no signs of abating, but Alfred Wimple was chilly and hungry. Moreover, he was tired of the _tête-à-tête_ in the shed, and he had a dull curiosity to hear the result of Aunt Anne’s visit to town. It was certain to provide some sort of excitement for the evening. If she had brought back money he would reap the benefit of it; if she had not, he could at least make her suffer, and to watch her suffer would provide him a satisfaction over which he gloated more and more with every experience of it. He buttoned his coat, turned up the bottoms of his trousers, and looked for his umbrella; then he hesitated a moment and looked out at the weather. He hated rain. “I wish I had thought to bring myself an umbrella,” his companion said; “it’s a long way across. Joe Pook is over at the King’s Head with his cart, and he’ll drive me back; but it’s a good bit to there.” Alfred Wimple coughed. “I can’t let you have mine”—and he held it firmly; “my chest is not strong.” “I wasn’t saying it for that,” she answered; “I was only thinking it was a pity I didn’t bring one. Good-bye; you’ll take care of yourself, won’t you?” “I will try,” he said, in his most sombre manner, as though he felt it to be an important undertaking. “Good-bye, Caroline.” Before they were many yards apart she turned and went after him. Her jacket was already wet with rain; her black straw hat was shining. There was an anxious excitement in her manner. “Alfred”—she put her hand on his shoulder and looked at his face while she spoke—“you care about me really, don’t you?” “Why do you ask that now?” he asked severely.